Silent
by CaptainFrosty
Summary: ' And he'd lied. He was never a survivor. And that's why she loved him. ' Captain Swan.


'The deafening silence' was quite possibly the most moronic term to ever come into existence. A silence that numbed the skull, that pierced the brain, that created the non-existent buzzing to commence was a silly little phrase that had no reason to exist, a hyperbole of the worst kind, a quote that made her teeth grind and her eyes narrow and her fingers twitch and her blood boil and her jaw to clench and her toes to curl and her skin to crawl.

And now, her life revolved around that stupid, pathetic statement.

Now, all that was, all that is, is that sickening silence that wont leave her mind, that wont leave her be, that wont let her do what must be done and _she's done this a million times, she can do it once more._ She can lock away all that she's known of him in the small room underneath the stairs that they'd meant to dust and fill with nothing, _because they weren't sentimental people_. And she'd meant to show him that Harry Potter film but she couldn't find it and now it was Friday and she _still_ hadn't found it.

And her life will go on as it had before she fell through that stupid, stupid, _stupid_ portal and then her life as she knew it came crashing down in the most wonderful way that her heart could ever experience. And it would be her and her son and his silly book and her over-protective parents and the grumpy co-mother that she's begun to know like a sister and her little brother that is young enough to be her own son and Nana, the dog they'd bought and named because _obviously_.

And she'd get up in the morning, with a whole bed to herself and she'd still be lying on the right side with her limbs stretched out and she was so _cold_ without a walking talking furnace to enjoy the company of and her blankets needed changing a week ago but she can't muster up the energy or the willpower because if she lies with her face on them she can still smell _him_.

And she'd make a coffee and remind herself to only grab one mug because she's made that mistake, she's made two cups of coffee. And when realisation sunk in she crumpled, and that's where she had lain for two hours with bright red burns on her legs and shattered ceramic pieces and her eyes burnt and her throat was tight and she couldn't breathe and she couldn't breathe for two hours and she honest to God thought she was going to die and she was the happiest she'd been in _so, so long_.

And then they'd found her and slathered something on her legs and told her that scar would most likely be permanent and she didn't _care_ because it was _something_ and she was so happy and that happiness was now imprinted on her limbs and it was better than any tattoo she could ever have. And then she remembered the small matching anchor that was on her ankle and she knew then that was a lie and she really, truly loved her lower body. And then she cried and cried because _what a familiar thought to have_.

And she'd brush her hair in long strokes and she'd only be able to do so much because _she couldn't stop crying_ and her own fingers didn't feel anything the same. And her brush was cold and it was too, too silent and it didn't hurt and it felt wrong. It felt as if the world had stopped spinning and the birds had given up their song and life wasn't the same and _why didn't everyone else feel it too_?

She wanted to forget but she couldn't forget because he couldn't just be forgotten. He wasn't a forgotten man and everyone knew that and that's why walking into the diner was just far too hard. Because she'd walk in and it was completely silent and an amateur would think her presence created that silence but she knew that was wrong because he was _gone_ and he was _at least_ eighty percent of the noise.

Because he'd crunch and he laugh and his smirk was a noise of its own and he'd give her loud little kisses every moment he got and she swore they drove the town mad but every time, someone would look over and smile and _that wasn't true_. And everyone had known how far it had been to reach this point and they also knew they were the happiest people in all of town and she knew that his happiness was the most contagious thing, more addictive than any nicotine, and _how could one so hyped on revenge be such a happy person_?

But nothing was there to fill his empty place on the booth next to her so all that remained with thick, heavy, _deafening_ silence that slowly killed that tiny bit of happiness that managed to cling to her withering heart. Or perhaps it clung to her legs where _they hadn't lied about that burn_ or perhaps it clung to the tattoo on her ankle because she was pretty sure she didn't have a heart any longer.

Or perhaps it clung to her son, who tried. He tried, he tried, _he tried_. He tried so hard that whatever heart that may exist swelled with love because he wanted to be the man of the house and that made her life worth living because _her son wanted to take his place_ and that was impossible but _he tried_. And she knew he knew that she thought she didn't deserve effort and that made it all the better because her loved her with every inch of his being and _he knew she knew_.

And her parents who pretended that he had never existed, they deserved every fibre of her love. Because even though she was being destroyed from inside out they kept a brave face and they knew that was exactly what she needed and perhaps her parents weren't the tactless stereotypical odd-sorts she thought them to be.

She knew that some rejoiced in his disappearance from the world, and others mourned, but they'd loved him all the same because over so many years he's proven himself as the world's best and _he deserved a freaking award_.

But no matter how many burns or anchor tattoos or broken mugs or drying tears or lost scents or cold sheets or empty booths or tactful small talks or absent hugs or _deafening silences_ , he was gone. He was gone and he was never coming back.

And he'd lied.

He was never a survivor.

And that's why she loved him.


End file.
